


Priorities

by dozmuffinxc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nightmare brings the Baker Street boys a little closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Priorities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Three Patch Podcast](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Three+Patch+Podcast).



“Nightmare.”

 

Sherlock’s voice rang out sharp and sudden from where the man himself stood in the kitchen, bent almost in half over some god-forsaken experiment. It was 3 o’clock in the morning, and John Watson had just stumbled downstairs for a cup of tea. He shouldn’t be surprised, really; although he had been certain his flatmate was absorbed in prodding the questionably-dead thing on their cutting board, Sherlock’s ability for multi-tasking was practically legendary.

 

“What are you on about?”

 

“You. Nightmare,” Sherlock repeated.

 

“Why do you say that,” John replied, regretting the words the moment they left his lips.

 

Sherlock barely glanced up as he set down his bloody scalpel and replaced it in his gloved hand with a clean microscope slide.

 

“Dilated pupils. Sweaty brow. That slight tremor in your left hand. Elevated pulse. Obvious.”

 

John spat out a bit of the lukewarm tea he had been sipping back into the chipped mug.

 

“Elevated p—how can you _possibly_ tell that from all the way over there?!”

 

Sherlock’s gaze raised properly now, his pale eyes giving John a not-so-slightly disappointed look.

 

Silence fell on the flat again. The sound of a siren in the distance and the rattle of the furnace downstairs teamed up with the quiet _clicks_ as Sherlock switched slides out on his microscope. John had started to doze, leaning heavily into the worn couch cushions, when Sherlock’s voice cut across the room again quite suddenly.

 

“Been a while,” he said.

 

“Hm,” John murmured, his eyes flying open again as he straightened back into a sitting position.

 

“Your nightmares. You haven’t had one in months.”

 

Despite the warm flush of embarrassment at the realization that Sherlock was aware of his sleeping patterns ( _as if he should be surprised_ ), the truth of Sherlock’s blunt statement made John pause.

 

When he had first moved to 221B, John’s nightmares had followed him. They were almost always the same: flashes of action on a distant combat field; the groans of men dying around him, just out of reach; the bright, searing light of an IED explosion and the _whoosh_ of a bullet aimed at his head. But like so many things, those nightmares had changed when he met Sherlock Holmes, becoming briefer and less frequent as the weeks went on until he hardly noticed them anymore.

 

Tonight, however, the nightmares had returned. This time, though, they had nothing at all to do with his soldier’s past. In the dream, John had been paralyzed and unable to speak, watching a larger-than-life Moriarty strap a bomb vest on a willing Sherlock. The red dots of hundreds of snipers’ rifle sights had danced across the faces of everyone he had ever loved, and the demented sound of laughter had echoed deafeningly across an empty swimming pool.

 

John didn’t hear the light tread as his flatmate came to stand in front of him, and he started slightly to find Sherlock’s cool eyes level with his own.

 

“It’s normal, you know,” Sherlock said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “You’ve had a shock.”

 

“A shock,” John repeated, his voice half-bemusement, half-incredulity. “We almost died, Sherlock. I was abducted by a madman and you almost blew us all up. I’d say that’s rather more than a shock.”

 

“But we didn’t,” Sherlock replied.

 

John sighed. “Die? No, we didn’t.”

 

Sherlock continued to stare at him, crouched in front of the sofa with his hands clasped under his chin, for another full minute. When he finally rose gracefully to his feet and strode back into the kitchen, John let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

 

Silence fell on the flat again. John had grown quite accustomed to these silences; they could go for hours, days, without talking, especially when Sherlock was in the middle of some experiment or locked up in his room with his violin refusing to acknowledge another human’s presence. They never seemed malicious, these silences, and John rarely questioned them anymore. In fact, he almost regretted breaking this one, but there was a question that he needed to ask, and it seemed only appropriate to ask it now.

 

“Why did you stay?”

 

It was Sherlock’s turn to look up, startled.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“When Moriarty left the first time. You could have followed him, but you didn’t. You ripped that vest off me and you made sure I was all right.”

 

“I don’t understand the question, John.”

 

John stared at the empty fireplace, remembering the conflicting emotions that he had felt that night: relief that they had been granted a reprieve, terror that the bomb vest would detonate anyway, and a strangely-euphoric feeling when Sherlock’s busy fingers had grazed his cheek while expertly divesting him of the deadly garment.

 

“Moriarty was clearly the priority. He might’ve gotten away – _did_ get away – but you wasted time on me when you could have been chasing him down.”

 

This time, John heard every footfall as Sherlock left the kitchen to kneel in front of him. Thin, callused fingers claimed his own, and John stifled a gasp as Sherlock leaned towards him so that their faces were only inches apart.

 

“You, John Watson, are my priority.”

 

As suddenly as the moment had begun, it ended. Sherlock was on his feet again, striding back into the kitchen and leaving John to gape awkwardly in his wake. There were no words for what he was feeling, and even if he had wanted to follow Sherlock to demand further explanation, his mouth had gone dry and a dizzying lightheadedness promised a good tumble should he attempt to stand.

 

The sounds of 221B enveloped John again. This time, though, he was distinctly aware of the sound of his flatmate’s steady breathing in the room next to him and the quiet _swish_ of his slippered feet as he flitted around the kitchen.

 

Eventually, John began to doze. Despite the pre-dawn light filtering in through the window, he succumbed to sleep at last and when he awoke, it was to find that a blanket had been tucked carefully around his shoulders and a fresh mug of steaming tea was sitting on the coffee table, prepared just the way he liked it.


End file.
